


Confidant

by KameTerra



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Brotherly Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-06
Updated: 2007-12-20
Packaged: 2019-08-06 15:18:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16390157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KameTerra/pseuds/KameTerra
Summary: Everyone goes to Donatello for help with their problems, but when Don has troubles of his own who does he confide in? A series of short stories featuring everyone's favorite turtle genius!





	1. Lies

_Knockety-knock-knock, knock knock._

Donatello had to smile to himself at the sound of Michelangelo’s signature rap from the entranceway, just because it was so very _Mikey_.

Don closed out his email and turned to take in the comical sight of the younger turtle standing stiffly in the doorway—all of his muscles were coiled in anticipation, as if he were a dog waiting to be let off the leash.  Donny smiled inwardly in amusement, imagining how much it had to be costing Mikey to wait to be invited in; but he was glad that at least one lesson seemed to have sunken in.  He didn’t mind his brothers coming to him with questions, but Michelangelo had ruined too many projects by simply walking in and not paying attention to where he was going or what he was touching.

“What’s up, Mikey?” Don asked, gesturing to his brother that it was safe to enter.

Instead of bounding in as expected, Michelangelo entered with absurd care and walked slowly over to Don’s bed where he sat down heavily.

_So, it’s one of those visits_ , thought Donny.  Mikey mostly came to ask him to fix or build things for him, but in those cases he would usually shove something under Don’s nose and speed-talk about it for a full minute before taking a breath and allowing his brother to get a word in edgewise.

Today he must’ve had something bigger on his mind—a rarity with Michelangelo.

Don spun his chair around to face his brother, and waited calmly for him to speak.  Mikey looked at him, and blew out a breath before beginning.

“Don,” he said, “I feel kinda bad about what happened at practice earlier.”

Don had to think for a moment before he remembered what had happened.  Practice sessions just seemed to run together in his head—it was like trying to remember what he’d had for breakfast yesterday.

“What, you mean with Leo?” asked Don, vaguely recalling the incident.

“Yeah,” affirmed Mikey.

Don shrugged.  “I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Mikey.  You know how Leo gets during training.  Besides, I’d think you’d be _used_ to being scolded by now.”

Mikey looked at him for a moment, then a smile split his face and he laughed loudly.

“No, dude, that’s not what bothered me!” said Mike amidst his laughter.  “Leo’s little lectures?  You kidding?  I barely register those anymore!”  Mike chuckled some more.  “I’ve got thicker skin than that!”

Don smiled.  “So then, what’s the problem?” he coaxed.

Mike sobered instantly and shifted uncomfortably on the bed.

“It was . . . you know, when he accused me of being sloppy because of staying up half the night playing video games,” Mikey said.

“Oh . . .” said Don, still a little confused.  “Well, I guess he shouldn’t have said that without knowing for sure—and I’m sure he felt bad once you told him it wasn’t true,” responded Don in what he hoped was a sympathetic way.  It was a little hard to understand, though.  It wasn’t like Mikey to be so sensitive about such things.

“That’s the thing . . .” Mikey said miserably.  “I lied.”

He didn’t meet Donny’s eyes.

“You . . . lied?  So you _were_ up half the night playing video games?”

Mikey nodded mutely.  Then he slowly looked up at Donatello, eyes swimming with guilt.

In the view of their father and teacher, lying to your family was a kind of betrayal—this idea had been hammered home so often that it was inextricably imbedded in all of their psyches.  Accordingly, the size of the untruth was not proportional to the severity of the misdeed—a lie was a lie, no matter how big or small.  Mike may as well have told Leo he wasn’t actually a turtle.  Oh, certainly they kept lots of things to themselves, but that was different.  Omitting some information for the sake of privacy was acceptable.  But this—telling a blatant untruth—was something else entirely.

Don was momentarily at a loss for words, but then seeing how stricken Mike looked he made an effort to remove the shocked expression from his face.

“But, Mikey, I don’t understand.  Why didn’t you just admit it?  I mean, it’s not like it would’ve been the first time.  Leo would have had his little rant, and maybe Master Splinter would have reprimanded you, but you know it would’ve blown over soon enough.”   

“I know . . .” replied Mikey wretchedly.  “But I couldn’t help it, it  . . . just sort of, like, came out!  Leo looked so _annoyingly_ sure of himself that, just for once, I wanted him to be wrong.  And . . . I got mad at him, I guess, but, well . . . I think I was mostly mad at myself for being so predictable and screwing up again,” the turtle confessed as he looked at his older brother.

Mike’s eyes pleaded for understanding, and sympathy stirred in Donatello’s heart.  He _did_ understand.  He’d caught hell from Leo before for staying up all night in his lab and showing up to practice tired.  Anyone who knew Leo would understand.  The eldest brother meant well, but he was always hardest on those he loved—and the high standards he held for his brothers made it inevitable that they would occasionally fail to meet them.  They knew this and tried not to let it get to them (with varying degrees of success), but the truth was that when Leonardo was disappointed in you, you felt it keenly.

Don also knew that Mikey didn’t often verbally express his deeper emotions, but when he did it was indicative of just how troubled he was.  And when he really needed to talk about something, Mike always came to _him_ —trusting he would not be laughed at or ridiculed or scolded.  Don felt unaccountably touched by that knowledge, and he strove to live up to the younger turtle’s trust in him.

Don sighed and then went to sit next to his brother.  He slung an arm around Mikey’s shoulders and gave him a brief squeeze, then he tugged his orange bandana tails playfully.

“It’s okay, Mikey, I know what you mean.”

Mike gave him a glum half-smile in appreciation for the reassurance.  After a moment he said, “I suppose you’re gonna tell me to go confess to Leo, huh?”

Don hesitated for a second before answering.  Part of him knew that was exactly what he should tell Mike to do, but another part of him felt protective of the one that always came to him for solace.  He was certain that if his brother confessed now, so long after the fact, he would be in even more trouble than if he’d just admitted the truth in the first place.  As a result, the whole incident would probably be blown way out of proportion, and he didn’t want to see Mikey further distressed when it was obvious how bad the younger turtle already felt.

On the other hand, this wasn’t something he could just let go by.  Michelangelo had to be punished in some way; that much was clear.  Yet when he saw his kid brother’s blue eyes ready to spill over with tears, he just couldn’t bring himself to give the response that waited on his tongue.  Fortunately for Mikey, the logical part of Don’s brain kicked in just far enough to provide the justification needed to bend the rules a little.

“No,” said Donatello bluntly, shrugging his shoulders.

“ _No_?  You _don’t_ think I should tell him?!” Mike sounded shocked yet hopeful, and he seemed to perk up a little.

“Tell me, Mikey, what made you come and talk to me?” Don asked, as if he hadn’t heard his brother’s last question.

Mike looked at him like he was an imbecile.

_Oh, that’s rich_ , Don thought.

“Dude, that should be, like, mega-obvious—who **else** would I go to?  Raph?!  _Master Splinter_? I don’t even know which would be worse!” and he shuddered as his overly-vivid imagination showed him how each one of those choices would play out.

“Whoa, whoa!” said Don.  “Not ‘what made you come and talk to _me_ ’, I meant what happened that made you felt like you had to talk to _anyone_.”

“Oh . . . well, um, I started playing the game again after practice, the same one I played last night, Ultimate Task Force III . . . it’s so bad-ass, dude, you should play it with me sometime!  You have this team and you have to bust up criminal operations, and each level is a different one, only when you bust up the bad guys you get to keep some of the loot, which makes your team better!  Last night I made it through level five with almost all of my team intact and—,” Mike was talking rapidly, running his sentences together in the usual way and gesturing enthusiastically as he did so, until he caught sight of Don’s raised brow ridges.

“. . . Yeah, um, anyway,” he cleared his throat and continued at a slower pace.  “Like I was saying, I started playing again, but it was . . . well . . .” his eyes flicked to the doorway, as if afraid someone might overhear what he was about to say.  “It was kind of a bummer.  I couldn’t focus and I just kept dying anyway, even though last night I was, like, unstoppable.  And I had this feeling in my stomach like I’d eaten week-old Chinese takeout,” he said, rubbing his stomach region at the memory. 

Mike looked up at Donatello, comprehension slowly dawning on his features

“Oh, man, I’m such an idiot!” Mikey declared emphatically.

Don patted his knee.  “No, you’re not.”

“I’m getting sick!  That explains everything!” continued Michelangelo, throwing up his arms.

“Huh?  No!  That’s not—,” started Donny, but a sidelong glance at his face revealed that Mikey was simply baiting him.  Donatello rolled his eyes and shook his head as his brother grinned like a Cheshire cat.

Mike laughed.  “All right, so I felt a bit guilty,” he admitted.

“Right, you felt guilty.  And if you went to Leo and confessed, what do you think would happen?”

“Uh, he’d probably get mad, go on an unnecessarily long tirade, Raphael would hear him and jump on the ‘Any Excuse To Yell At Mikey’ wagon, and since Raph’s got such a BIG FAT MOUTH, Master Splinter would come to see what the big deal was, and then I’d probably get assigned extra practice and have my game taken away,” finished Mikey dejectedly.

“That’s more or less the way I picture it, too,” said Donny.  “So how bout if we just skip all that middle stuff and jump to the end?” he suggested.

Mike crinkled his brow in confusion.  “You mean go directly to Master Splinter?”

Don suppressed a sigh.  _Swing and a miss._   “No, I mean take your game away,” he said seriously.

At that, Michelangelo just looked appalled.

Don held one hand up to stop Michelangelo’s impending outburst.  “Just hang on a sec, let me explain,” he said.  “Unquestionably, the moral thing to do is to tell Leo. _But_ , we agreed the result of that would cause a ruckus, and if it were me I’d wanna avoid that even more than the actual punishment.  So what if you just agree to give up a game for a while on your own?  Sort of like a short cut?”

Mikey looked like he was considering, so Don continued talking.

“I mean, after all— _you_ know what you’ve done wrong, and you feel bad about it—so as long as you promise yourself you won’t do it again, I don’t see any harm in leaving everyone else out of it.”

Mike was nodding slowly to himself.  Then he brightened considerably and said, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.  Thanks, Donny,” he said, looking at his brother and smiling in relief. 

“Anytime, Bro.”

“There’s just one problem, though,” said Mikey slowly, his expression pained.  “I don’t think I can give up the game on my own.  Would you mind  . . . would-you-mind-hanging-on-to-it-for-me-until-my-punishment’s-over?”  He finished the request quickly, like ripping off a band-aid just to get the pain over with.

“Course I wouldn’t mind,” said Don agreeably as he rubbed Mikey fondly on the head.  “I might even do as you suggest and give it a try myself . . .”

“Oh, now you’re just being _evil_ ,” said Mike, narrowing his eyes accusingly as he stood up to leave.

He laughed as Mikey exited the room, but when his brother was gone Donny’s smile dissolved and he turned back to his computer.


	2. Lectures

Some time after Michelangelo’s visit there was another knock on the door frame, followed by quiet footsteps entering Don’s room.  Even without even turning from his computer, Don knew it was Leo who waited behind him.  Leonardo’s knock signified everything that he was—assured, steady, considerate.  He was the only one who seemed to feel he had the right to enter immediately—as if the knocking was merely a nicety that had to be observed, like a bow prior to a sparring match.  As Leo wasn’t prone to knocking things over, however, Don didn’t really mind this tendency.

“Hey Leo, what’s up?” he asked, glancing back over his shoulder. 

“Hey Donny,” said Leo easily.  “I just wanted your opinion on something …do you have a minute?”

“Sure thing,” Don replied as he closed the internet and stood up to go with Leo.  “Lead the way,” he said, assuming Leo wanted his opinion on some piece of equipment that had gone haywire.

“No, not that kind of opinion,” Leo said, indicating Don could sit back down if he wanted to.

Don shrugged and sat down in the chair at his desk, and to his surprise Leo sat cross-legged on the floor near him.  It felt weird to be so much higher up than his brother—it meant that Leonardo, the number two in command, the one that always had a plan, the Fearless Leader, had to tilt his head and look _up_ at him.  It was somehow too symbolic—not to mention a little disconcerting.

As usual, Leo took a moment to organize his thoughts before he spoke, and once again Donatello found himself waiting patiently for someone else to speak their mind.

“Don,” Leo began quietly, a familiar line creasing his brow, “Am I too hard on you guys?”  Leo looked up at him, his dark eyes receptive and unassuming.

“I’m asking _you_ because I know you’ll be honest and fair—even if you think I won’t like the answer,” Leo said before Don had even begun to think of a reply.

Don, who for the second time in one day was at a loss for words, had no idea how to respond.  He and Leonardo had always enjoyed a comfortable and fairly close relationship as far as siblings went, and the eldest had come to him on many occasions for advice on all sorts of things—but this was the first time Don could ever remember Leo asking him for feedback on his leadership skills.

Since he wasn’t sure what to say, Donatello decided to fall back on his old fail-safe—the scientific method.  _Gather more data_.

“I’m not quite sure how to answer that . . . ,”

Leo must have noticed his discomfiture, because he immediately tried to set his brother at ease. 

“It’s all right, Don, you can tell me.  I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t want to know.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to answer,” said Don, “but you gotta give me a little more information—be more specific.”

Leonardo nodded, and was quiet for another moment as he thought about how to clarify his question.

“Okay, the thing is, I already _know_ I’m tough on you guys.  It’s partly because of who I am, that I personally strive to do my best in all things, and I naturally want others to do the same.  And, it’s partly because it’s my job to make sure we do everything we possibly can to increase our chances of returning home safely when there’s trouble.”  He looked up again.

Don knew these things already, but he didn’t interrupt.  He could tell Leo was just giving him the background, setting up for the real issue, so he simply nodded for his brother to continue.

“So, obviously I don’t have a problem pushing you guys per se, in practice or even in general, as long as it might help us become a more effective team.  But . . .”

As Leo searched for the right words, Donatello noticed his brother’s hand tightening ever so slightly as it rested across his lap, and the perceptive turtle realized that this discussion was more difficult for Leonardo than he was letting on.  The subtle tensing of muscles was as close to fidgeting as his brother ever came.

Leo continued, “If I push _too_ hard, then it could have the opposite affect of making everyone feel angry, or resistant, or even inadequate, and that could actually make us _less_ effective as a team.  And I definitely don’t want those things coming out at the wrong moment—say, in a real battle.”

“Okay, I’m with you so far,” Don said.

The leader sighed.  “So, I owe it to you guys to make sure I’m not just pushing _you_ , but I’m also pushing _myself_ to be the best leader I can be—and that includes adjusting a behavior that might be counterproductive.”

“Ah, I see,” said Don slowly.  “And what makes you think you might be pushing too hard?”

“It was mainly my little blow-up at Mikey earlier today,” Leo admitted.  “I know I lost my patience, and that caused me to jump to false conclusions as to the cause of his mistakes.  I didn’t apologize at the time—I mean, we were in the middle of sparring—and then it just kind of slipped my mind.  But at lunch, Mike seemed . . . rather quiet.  And he wouldn’t meet my eyes.  It made me realize that he gets singled out a lot, because of how much he likes to goof off and everything, but maybe the criticism effects him more than he lets on.  And then I started to question whether everyone takes things harder than I realize.”

“And . . .,” added Leo hesitantly, “the others talk to you.  I mean _really_ talk to you.  All I get are jabs from Mikey and shouts from Raph, so it’s hard to tell when it’s a valid complaint and when they’re just being . . . themselves.”

Don tried to keep his face impassive as he listened, and he figured he was pretty successful given the amount of practice he’d had lately.  But it was difficult, because he couldn’t help imagining what Raph’s or Mike’s reaction would have been to Leo’s question.  Either of them, he was sure, would have taken full advantage of the situation and told Leo to back off, that he was being an absolute slave driver and needed to get a life or find a hobby other than bullying them.  Of course, Raphael would have put it in much stronger terms.  For his part, Mikey probably would have been thrilled that his little white lie had lead to such a wondrous turn of events.  He guessed that was why Leo was asking _him_ and not Raph or Mike.

_It’s a good thing Mikey came to me first_ , thought Don.  _Now at least I know what’s really going on._

Leo was looking at him expectantly, and Don mentally shook himself to bring his thoughts back to the issue at hand.

“Well,” said Don, “When it comes to training, I don’t think you’re too hard on us.  We need to be pushed—we understand that.  I mean, it’s not just _you_ ; we all have to push each other or we wouldn’t improve, right?”

Leonardo studied his brother’s eyes in a way that meant he was trying to gauge the truthfulness of Don’s words.  Satisfied, he gave a slight nod. 

“But …” Don continued, and he noticed Leo stiffen ever so slightly.

“Maybe we could do with less of the lecturing,” Don concluded.  He kept his face serious, but he inclined his head slightly to soften the impact of the words.  Leo had asked him for honesty, so there it was.

Donny let his brother think about his words for a moment, and then he tried to explain more fully.

“See, it’s not just that all the lectures are unnecessary, it’s that they’re ineffective.  Believe me, getting knocked to the floor half a dozen times during practice drives the message home much better than saying, ‘don’t stay up so late next time,’ or ‘stay focused for once’.  And, the more times a speech is given, the easier it is to block it out.  So if one (Don was careful not to say ‘you’) were to use such speeches more sparingly, they would have an even bigger impact.  Besides, Leo, _you_ can say more with just a look than with five minutes straight of talking.”

Leo remained quiet, and Don could practically see the thoughts ghosting about the blue banded head as he considered his younger brother’s words.  At least he seemed to be taking the critique okay.

_Well, he should_ , Don thought.  _He asked for it_.

“Okay,” said Leo finally, as if he had come to a conclusion.  He looked up, and gave a small smile.  “Thanks, Donny, I appreciate your honesty.  I guess I don’t even realize I’m doing it anymore, but you’re right.  I don’t know if I can stop completely, but this gives me something to work on, at least.”

“Anytime, Bro,” said Don.  “And I wouldn’t worry about Mikey—whatever’s bugging him, I doubt it’s anything to do with a mere scolding—he probably forgot about that the moment it was out of your mouth!  I’m sure he’ll be back normal in no time.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Leo said, rolling his eyes.  “Next time I’ll take your advice, and just knock him around a lot more to really send the message home.  Maybe even kick him while he’s down . . . stuff like that.”  The turtle in blue was grinning now.

“In fact,” he continued, “the new official policy is going to be corporal punishment from here on out—next time anyone demonstrates less than perfect table manners, or leaves the bathroom a mess, or leaves personal items scattered about the lair, _bam!_ ”Leo smacked his hand into his other fist.  “Lesson learned.  No more speeches from me.  You know, Don,” he said with a reflective air, “I think this could be really good change—for the _team_ , I mean.”  He gave a rare, wicked smile.

“Uh . . .Leo?” said Don apprehensively.  “Did I neglect to mention that the lecturing actually works _very_ well on me?  Yeah, very _very_ well.  In fact, I hang on your every word—I mean it!” he said.

“Not only that, but I copy every one of your speeches down _religiously_ in a notebook every night,” he continued in mock desperation.   “I sleep with it under my pillow, and re-read your words at frequent intervals, just to make sure I don’t forget anything . . .”

Leonardo laughed.  Maybe it was because it was less expected coming from Don, or maybe it had more to do with his deadpan delivery—but for whatever reason, despite Mikey’s reputation as the jokester, Donatello could always get his older brother to laugh.

The leader rose in one fluid motion, still chuckling, and Don stood up as well, returning the good humor.

Leo cuffed Donny on the shoulder a couple of times in gratitude before heading towards the door.  Don sat down and turned back to the computer, intending to continue with what he had been doing before he was interrupted.

But before he left, Leo paused in the doorway, and turned around again.

“Hey, Donny,” he said, “I forgot to ask—how’s your friend doing?  The one out in . . . California, is it?”

Don’s hand tightened imperceptibly on the mouse, and he didn’t turn around.

“Who, Ricki?  She’s doing . . . fine.  Great, actually,” Don replied casually.  Then he looked over his shoulder at Leo and gave a brief smile.

“Good,” said Leo, satisfied.  Then he was out the door, without a backward glance.


	3. Lullabies

Don sighed in annoyance as red and green stalked past his doorway yet again.  He considered himself a patient turtle, but _really_ , three counseling sessions in one day?  It was a bit much.  He minimized the active webpage, and prepared himself for what he was sure would turn out to be the most difficult of the three.

“Raph!” he called out.  “Can you come in here please!”

Raphael appeared almost instantly in the doorway, which lead Don to suspect he had been lingering just beyond it.

“Yo, what’s up Don?”

Donatello said nothing, but beckoned him closer with a finger.

Raph strode in and stood next to Don’s chair.

“What do you want, Raph,” said Don, his tone ballooning with barely concealed impatience.

Raphael gave him a look of overdone confusion.

“Donny, _you_ called _me_ in here.”

The turtle in purple shot his brother a shrewd look.  This was one of Raph’s favorite strategies—acting like having a chat was the farthest thing from his mind so that Don would have to coax it out of him, which then allowed Raph to continue telling himself that he didn’t need help from anyone.

“Raph, I’m many things, but an idiot is not one of them—that’s the fourth time in like ten minutes you’ve stomped past my room.  If you need something, just ask already! 

Raphael rubbed his head absently, and shifted his weight back and forth.  He opened his mouth as if to speak, but just then Michelangelo walked by the door on his way down to the common area, and Raphael positively jumped.

_My, aren’t we jittery_ , thought Don.

“Look, whatever you’ve broken, I’m sure it’s fixable,” said Don, trying to calm his brother so he’d get on with it.

Raph shook his head rapidly, and then, glancing back over his shoulder at the doorway, he suddenly leaned in very close to Don and rested his forearms on the computer desk.  “I just wanted to ask . . .” he said in almost a whisper, “I just need . . . your, uh, help with something,” he faltered.

Don leaned in closer, and responded with an exaggerated imitation of Raph’s whisper.   “Okay—but you have to actually tell me what it is before I can help you,” he pointed out.

Incredibly, Raph was so preoccupied with his own problem that he didn’t even comment on the smart-ass nature of the reply.  _Hmmm, this should be interesting_ , Don thought to himself. 

The turtle in red flicked another glance at the doorway before continuing quietly.  “See, there’s something I need to order . . .”

“Raph, we’ve been over this before,” Don interrupted.  “There’s this new thing called the _Internet_ where you can buy all sorts of things without ever leaving the lair,” he said sarcastically.

“Will you let me **finish** dammit!?” Raph hissed.

Don threw up his hands, then leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his neck.  Already this encounter was almost exactly opposite of the previous one—everything with Leo had been calm, ordered, conducive to thought.  This . . . well, this  was just so _Raph_ —rushed, choppy . . . volatile.

Raph whispered, “See, Master Splinter told me to, uh, try and explore some things that I might find relaxing, and, you know, sorta use ‘em to help me calm down or whatever.  So—,”

And suddenly it all made sense.  _No wonder he’s so jumpy_.

Don held up a hand.  “Stop right there! I don’t need to hear,” he said quickly. “Look, I’ll let you use my computer—order whatever it is you want, and don’t you _dare_ download anything.”

“Actually,” said Raph nervously, “I was hopin’ you could order it for me—under your name.”

“ _What_?!  No way!  Absolutely not!  **NO**.  We may be brothers, but there _has_ to be a line!”

“Don—,”

“And I definitely draw that line at ordering _porn_ for you!”

“DONNY!” Raph looked nervously over his shell at the doorway and then returned to a whisper.  “Could you try and keep it down?!  That _ain’t_ what I was gonna order!” he hissed vehemently.  “And thank you so much for making this even _more_ awkward,” he added.

“That’s not . . . that’s not what you wanted?”

“Shell no!  All I wanted was a friggin’ CD!” he said, his voice low but forceful.

“Oh, thank god,” breathed Don.  He took a moment to reassemble his scattered thoughts, and when at last he was successful, a new thought occurred to him.

“If it’s just a CD, then what’s with all the secrecy?  Why can’t _you_ order it?” 

Raph looked instantly uncomfortable again.  “I’d just . . . rather everyone didn’t know about it,” he muttered.

Don narrowed his eyes in suspicion.  “What CD is it?”

Raph checked the doorway yet again before grabbing a sticky note and a pen off the desk.  He wrote something on it, and handed it to Don.

Don took the paper curiously, and his eyes flew wide open in surprise.  “ _Sarah McLachlan?!”_

“— _Shhhhhhhhhhh!!!”_   Raph put up his hands in a gesture of quiet.

“Raphael, I don’t—,”

“C’mon, Donny!” he pleaded in a whisper.  “You know the others would never let this go if they found out!  Specially Mikey,” he added with venom.  “And it was Sensei’s idea … it helps me calm down before I fall asleep,” Raph admitted sheepishly.

“Oh, like the guys won’t make fun of _me_?!” retorted Don.  “They’ll have a field day!”

“Well sure, but your orientation’s already in question,” Raph quipped before he could stop himself.

Don’s eyes were mere slits now.  “Not helping your case, Raph.”

Raphael cursed under his breath.  Then he sighed deeply and averted his eyes.

“Look, Master Splinter really wants me to work on this whole anger thing.  I promised him I’d try, no matter how pointless I think it is.  And I can’t just give up—not yet, not without at least tryin’ everything that might help . . . but it ain’t easy for me, ya know?”  He paused, and let out another deep breath, as if even trying to give a hint of his true feelings was deeply exhausting. 

“So I don’t got a good reason why you should help me . . .,”

Raph met Donatello’s eyes. 

“But I was just kinda hopin’ you’d do it anyway.  Please,” he added as an afterthought.

Gazes still locked, Donatello scanned Raph’s amber-flecked eyes, and in their depths he saw a sincerity that was rarely evident there.  Amazingly, Raphael was speaking from his heart.

Donatello was first to look away.

“ _Shell,”_ muttered Don.  He knew he was beaten.  “All right,” he said resignedly.  “I’ll do it.”

Raph grinned and jostled his brother’s shoulders roughly.  “Donny, you _are_ The Turtle!” he said happily.

Donatello fended off Raph’s attempted display of affection, and said, “But I do have one condition.”

Raph froze and looked apprehensive as he asked, “What is it?”

“When everyone digs into me about this, you have to stick up for me—and no half-hearted attempts, either.  If you make so much as a _single_ crack, I’ll make sure everyone knows what your favorite bedtime music is!  _And_ I’ll imply that you tried to get me to order porn for you,” he finished somewhat smugly.

“That . . . that ain’t fair!” Raph sputtered.

When Donatello didn’t respond, Raphael tried to stare him down—but Don didn’t flinch.  _That’s the deal, take it or leave it_ , his expression clearly said. 

“Godammit,” Raphael muttered finally, and this time _he_ was first to look away.  “Okay,” he said reluctantly.  “It’s a deal.”

“Okay.  Then I’ll have it sent to April’s,” Don said agreeably.

Raphael nodded and straightened up to leave, but instead of heading immediately to the door he just stood there.

“Donny?”

“Hmm?”

“Thanks, Bro.  I owe you one,” said Raph seriously.

“More like _ten_ ,” corrected Don.  “And I’m not afraid to collect,” he grumbled.

Raph grinned at him, gave him one last noogie, and left.

Donatello sighed.

_Alone again._

 

 


	4. Love

If he squinted hard enough he could just make her out her form, enveloped as she was by the turbulent mass of people exiting the spandreled latticework of Latimer Hall.  The students spilled out from a multitude of buildings onto the mosaic of Berkeley’s campus like a breaking wave—inundating the grounds and seeping gradually into every crevice.

She wore the scowl he knew so well—the one that caused her lips to draw in tight like a bow string and gave her forehead that single, irregular furrow.  No doubt she was contemplating the chemistry lecture she had just come from.  Had she been the social type, she probably would’ve been complaining about the lecture like her classmates on every side—but instead she walked alone, her intense expression and sure strides causing crowds to move aside in spite of her small size.

Her hair had grown out some in the last month, he could see, and soon it would be long enough to be pulled back in a ponytail.  After a time she slowed her pace, and abruptly came to a halt on the now-empty sidewalk—contemplating something that was manifest only in the recesses of her mind.  She made her way to the nearest patch of grass and pulled a notebook out of her backpack before sitting down.  She flipped through pages with the measured precision of one who had spent a good deal of time holding fragile vessels of caustic liquids, and peered in closer when she spotted an entry of interest.

He wished she would smile.

He _lived_ for her smile.

But he knew she wouldn’t.  She was too deep in scientific mode, thinking only in equations rich with elemental abbreviations and molar coefficients.  At present, her brain had no room for anything else … and certainly no room for any thoughts of _him_.

Donatello closed his eyes and sighed—a profound exhalation, and the only voice he allowed his current emotions.  With the departed breath fled some of the hollow ache that resided quite permanently in chest, but the subsequent intake of oxygen brought it back to him afresh, and he nearly choked at the utter bleakness of it.

When he next opened his eyes, the interactive map of the UC campus displayed on his monitor had reverted back to its usual appearance—gone were the imagined masses of students, the splendor of the Campanile and the Sather Gate reduced to monochromatic parodies of what they would have been in life.

In life.  As he would never see them.

As he would never see her among them.  Instead, his mind gathered stolen images to manufacture a world he could never be part of.

_Pathetic, that’s what you are Donny-boy_ , he thought with disgust.

He told himself that at least six times a day, but it didn’t seem to help.  He still felt compelled to look at the clock at every opportunity, quizzing himself on what class she would be in or what she might be doing at any given time.  He knew his way around the campus as if he’d walked it with her every day with for the last month, and he even went so far as to try and find copies of the chemistry lectures online so he could keep pace with what she was doing and discuss it with her via email.

_Way to go, stalker,_ he told himself.  _If Ricki knew you were doing this, it’d completely freak her out—and that’s saying a lot._

He vividly recalled the night she had told him about the scholarship.  For him, the memory would always be a double helix of emotion—equal parts joy and misery bonded together and twisting away into eternity.

 

* * *

 

_“Donny, Donny!” she screeched, throwing herself at him with an openness that she rarely displayed.  “I got it! I … I can’t even fucking believe it!  I’m gonna study chemistry at Berkeley!”_

_Don welcomed her into his arms, holding her as tightly as possible for as long as he dared.  His heart leapt at the close contact, wishing it was possible for them to simply melt together. In all the time he had known her—more than a year—they had never once hugged.  But even as his spirit climbed to new heights, his stomach sank with the heaviness of lead in a murky pond._

_They broke apart, and still she held both of his hands and danced around, unable to keep still.  She was smiling as never before, her hazel eyes squinting so much that they practically disappeared.  He couldn’t help it—he smiled back broadly, sharing in her joy and enthusiasm._

_“Ricki, that’s great!” he managed.  And he meant it.  What did it matter that his heart was gradually becoming ash, like the burning end of a cigarette?_

_She ceased her dancing and looked at him, eyes sparkling.  “Yeah, well, not too damn shabby for a common hoodlum, huh?”_

_“I always knew you had it in you,” he responded, fervently hoping that she would continue holding his hands.  “Ever since the first time I saw you concocting a homemade bomb in some old alley, preparing to vaporize that poor innocent dumpster …”_

_She released him, and whacked him playfully on the arm.  “No way was that dumpster innocent!   You wouldn’t even **believe** the insults it shouted at me!  It was always sayin’ shit about my mom … An’ don’t even get me started on the smell.”_

_“Yeah, yeah,” he chuckled, trying with all of his might to keep things light.  “I’ve heard all this before …”_

_She giggled a little, but stopped abruptly when she realized she was doing it.  Instantly she sought to regain some semblance of dignity; but she couldn’t quite rid herself of the smile that graced her features._

_“Well,” she said, suddenly self-conscious.  Her fingers raked nervously through her sandy hair.  “I …uh … none a this woulda happened if not for you, Don.”_

_He wanted more than anything to pull her back into his arms, to hold her there so long that all thoughts of scholarships and college and chemistry faded into oblivion._

_But instead he just smiled a shy smile, and prayed for the strength to get through the night without betraying himself._

_They sat together on the top of that building into the small hours of the morning, dangling their legs over the edge of the roof.  He asked her all about Berkeley—when the term started, what classes she wanted to take, and what the requirements of the scholarship were.  She answered everything in a business-like manner, but the restless drumming of her feet against the side of the building as they talked belied the neutral tone of her voice._

_He only wished he could see her better in the near-darkness, so he could capture the memory of her face as it was tonight.  For once, her visage was completely open, her eyes glowing.  It was like he was seeing Ricki as she might have been, had life thrown her different cards.  Once, she met his gaze for a brief moment—pausing in mid-sentence as she recognized on a subliminal level something deep in his eyes, but then she blushed and looked away in confusion._

_And suddenly he understood.  This wasn’t Ricki at all—this was Erica.  Pure, unguarded, and free._

_And he was glad he had gotten to see her like that, if only for one night._

* * *

 

 

Even now, he could close his eyes and feel her warm body pressed innocently against his, smell her hair, hear her elusive laughter as it had sounded on that night.  All at once a terrible pressure began building in his chest, and it forced its way up to his throat like a billowing wave of steam.

_Knockety-knock-knock, knock knock._

_Shit, not now,_ thought Don, and he swallowed hard, struggling to master himself. 

“Come in, Mikey,” he managed to squeeze out through the collapsed tunnel of his throat.  He took his time closing out the web pages, giving himself a few extra moments to compose himself before turning to look at his brother.

Mike slowly held out his video game to Don, who accepted it without a word.  Then the orange-clad turtle just stood there, looking slightly lost, and Don’s heart went out to him again in spite of his own inner turmoil.

“It’s the right thing to do, Bro,” he said with conviction.

Mike looked at him, then slowly smiled and nodded his head.  “I know.  I feel lighter already.”

Don smiled back gently and then waited, expecting Mikey to leave once he had relinquished the game.  But Mike continued to stand there next to him.

“Did you need something else?” Donatello asked quizzically.  _How much trouble can Mikey get into in one day?_ he thought to himself.

“Uh, no … I mean yeah, but …” Mike was looking at him in a strange way.

“It’s okay, Mikey.  You know you can tell me.”

“I know, but that’s not …” He hesitated.  “I just thought I’d ask, you know, how _you’re_ doing.”

And that was all it took—just one kind word, and Donatello’s carefully maintained wall of composure began to crumble away like sandstone from a cliff.  His shoulders sagged and he put his head in his hands, shielding his face from Mikey’s inquiring eyes as his insides twisted like a washcloth about to be wrung out.  Fingers pressed to his forehead, he fought against the surge of hot tears threatening to inundate him.

He felt an arm softly encircle his shoulders.  “Donny, Donny … what is it?” Mike asked worriedly.

Don hesitated.  For some time now, part of him had been wanting to talk to someone about how he felt, and several times he had considered broaching the subject with one of his brothers—but he had known he wouldn’t be able to do so without completely breaking down, and he was hesitant to let anyone see him like that.  Leo was always just so … in control of himself that Don squirmed at the thought of falling apart in his presence.  And Raphael?  The very idea of telling Raph was almost laughable—not because he was uncaring, but because he was nearly as uncomfortable seeing outward displays of emotion in others as he was with revealing his own.  Oh, he knew Splinter would have listened and sympathized with him, but for reasons he couldn’t explain he hadn’t felt right about going to his father, either.

Then there was Mikey … the lighthearted, fun-loving prankster … but Don was always the one comforting _him_. 

And yet … and yet here he was, alone out of all of them, inquiring after Don’s well-being, with one arm wrapped so comfortingly about his shoulders …  Suddenly, Don didn’t feel so much like the older brother anymore.

Tears began to slide out against his will, burning like acid rain and darkening portions of his mask to the color of bruised plums.  Still fighting for control, he swallowed painfully.  “It’s … it’s just that …”

Michelangelo, bless him, didn’t say anything.  He just tightened his arm around Donatello’s shoulders and waited.

“I just miss her _so m-much_ ,” he managed finally, his voice breaking as more tears slipped free with the words.

“Your friend Ricki?” asked Mike, even though he knew the answer.

Donatello, still keeping his face hidden, simply nodded.

“You’re keeping in touch, though, aren’t you?”

“Sure, for now,” Don croaked, “but it won’t stay that way.”

“C’mon, I doubt that,” Mikey said gently, trying to sound positive.  “I didn’t know her very well or anything, but you two were, like, pretty tight.  I mean, all you nerds seem to stick together, and she spoke Geek nearly as fluently as you.”

Don shook his head, scrunching his face up as if he was in pain.  And of course, he was.

“I know,” he said, his voice quavering.  “But she’s in a different world now.  We’ll continue to keep in touch for while, but eventually we’ll become immersed in our separate lives and … and I’ll be okay with that.  I’ll _have_ to be okay with that.”

“But … but _why_?”

Swallowing hard, his voice strained, Don said, “Because that’s just the way things are.  This is _my_ world—I grew up learning and inventing on my own here in the sewers, occasionally sharing things with you guys, and most of time I was perfectly content with that.  And then once I had April and Leatherhead to share ideas and projects with, it was more satisfying than ever before.”

Then he drew a slow, calming breath, and continued in a steadier tone.  “But at the same time … you can’t have any idea how much it would mean to me to be able to go to college—to be part of a scientific community, to share my ideas and have them challenged, to be right there where paradigms are obliterated and rebuilt as a matter of course.”  Here he hesitated before continuing.  “I’ll never have those things.  And I’m okay with that, for the most part.  Really, I am,” he said, risking a quick glance at Mikey. 

The purple-clad turtle paused once again, and the air itself seemed to grow heavier in sympathy with his emotions.  “But _she_ can have those things in California.  And even if we lose touch because of it, that’s okay because … because …”

“Because you love her,” finished Mikey for him.

When Donatello finally looked at him, the expression on his face nearly broke the younger turtle’s heart.

“Aww, Bro,” Mike said softly, and no two words ever held more compassion. 

Kneeling alongside Don’s chair, he drew his brother gently to him, enfolding him in both arms so that Donny’s head was tucked against his shoulder.  Wrapped in his baby brother’s protective embrace, Don found he couldn’t hold it in any more, and he cried brokenly, helplessly as Mikey stroked the back of his head and rocked him gently in sympathy.  Donatello clung to his brother like he was shipwrecked and Mike was his life raft—and with the profusion of tears that poured forth, it wasn’t much of a stretch.

After a while his shuddering sobs began to abate, but Mikey held him tightly still.  Only when at last Don’s sobs slowed to sniffs did Mike loosen up his embrace.  Then he rose to fetch a box of tissues from next to the bed.  Donny tried to compose himself, and when Mike knelt again and offered him the tissues, he gratefully pulled several free.

“I’b sorry,” Don said with a stuffed nose as he blotted his eyes. He blew his nose.  “I snotted all over you,” he said, pointing at his brothers shoulder.

“It’s okay,” said Mikey, and he ignored the dampness on his own shoulder and rubbed Donny’s arm gently, up and down.

Don then proceeded to mop up Mike’s shoulder, and half a dozen more tissues littered the desk when he was through.

“I’m sorry, Don, but this is completely unacceptable,” Mikey said at last, his face stern.

Looking at him in surprise, Don didn’t even know what to say.  This was not at all the reaction he had anticipated.

Mike then pointed to the wadded up tissues strewn about the computer desk—a few were even resting on the keyboard.  “You would _totally_ chew me out for that, dude,” he said.

A laugh that sounded more like a sob escaped Don’s throat, and Mikey smiled in triumph.

Then Michelangelo grew serious again.  “Did you ever tell her?”

“No,” Don answered with a sigh, feeling more drained than if he’d just single-handedly taken on every Purple Dragon in the city.

“Why not?  Maybe she feels the same way.  For all you know she’s crying her eyes out over you as we speak. 

Still sniffling slightly, Don said, “It doesn’t matter.”

“I’d say it matters, like, a lot, Bro. ‘All you need is love’—or so the Beatles said, and I may not be much of a fan, but even I’d agree they knew what they were talking about on that one. 

“It doesn’t matter because I would never tell her. What if she’d decided things differently because of me?  Not that that’s likely, but I didn’t want to risk it.”

“But, Donny, isn’t that the _idea_?”

Don was silent for a moment.  He’d fantasized about such things endlessly—about the two of them falling in love, and living in New York, and being inseparable.  Or at least as inseparable as a human woman and a mutant turtle who lived in the sewers could be.  And truthfully, if she had suggested any such thing, he could not have refused her.  But she hadn’t, and in the end it all came back to one thing.

“No,” he said softly.  “I _wanted_ her to go … she deserves so much more than what she had as a life in this city.  She deserves more than _me._   College, travel, the chance to make a difference in her field, children if she wants them someday… then again, maybe I’m just a coward,” he said hollowly.

Michelangelo reached out and grasped the rim of his brother’s shell, jostling him gently.

Don looked up, and he was surprised to see tears in Mike’s eyes this time.

“A coward?  No, Don.  Never _you_ ,” he said simply.

Don gave him a watery smile, and for the first time since the night Ricki had told him she was leaving, the knot he had inside of him loosened up slightly.  It gave him hope that one day he might even be able to draw a breath without it tightening cruelly about his heart.  Mikey’s hand was still resting on his shell, and Don covered his brother’s hand with his own and held it there, silently thanking him for his words.

Eventually he released Mike’s hand, and then he asked, “Have you ever been in love, little brother?”

The younger turtle sat back and shook his head slowly, his eyes wide.  “No dude.  Not really, not like this—and seeing you right now, I kinda hope I never will be.  Seems like it can be a real bummer.”

“Bummer, yeah,” smiled Don.  _That’s the understatement of the decade._

“Speaking of which …” said Mikey slowly, “how come you never told anyone?  I mean, we knew you guys were, like, hanging out a lot, and I’m sure we all kinda figured you had a bit of crush on her, but I never guessed …”

Staring down at his feet, Donatello said, “I … I don’t know, exactly,” and he heaved another painful sigh.  “At first, I guess I told myself it was just that—a crush.  And then by the time it moved beyond that, I didn’t even want to admit it to _myself_ , much less tell anyone else.  It wasn’t like, you know, I ever thought I had a shot.  It just seemed like maybe if I never spoke it out loud … it wouldn’t be so painful when she left.  And I knew she would someday.  Leave, I mean.”

“But she left, what, a month ago?  And you’ve been secretly pining away this whole time?”

“I know, it’s pathetic,” said Don dismally.

“I wasn’t thinking that,” Mike said quickly.  “It’s just that … I wish you would’ve told me sooner.”

Don caught the faintest flutter of hurt in Mikey’s tone, and it took him by surprise.  He had never considered the possibility that keeping this from his brothers would cause _them_ pain. 

“I wanted tell someone, after a while, but I was … it was just that …”  He stopped, not knowing how to explain.  Finally, he gave up trying and just looked at his brother apologetically.  “I’m sorry, Mikey.”

“No!” exclaimed Mike almost angrily, but his tone gentled considerably when he saw Donny’s face.  “I don’t want you to be sorry—not for me, anyway.  I mean, look at yourself, bro!” he said, gesturing at the mounds of crumpled tissues.

“You just lost enough fluids to, like, flood a good part of the sewer system, and none of us had any clue what you were going through!  So if anyone gets to be sorry, it should be _me_ , for not asking how you were sooner.  What you _can_ do,” Mikey continued, “is remember that I’m—that _we’re_ here to help _you_ , too.  We’re always here to help you.”  He scanned Donatello’s eyes for a moment.  “Even if all we can do is listen.”

Don was taken aback—he could only stare stupidly at the orange-masked turtle.  _Is this really my irresponsible, scatter-brained, clueless, practical joker of a little brother talking?_ “Mikey … I’m—you’re right,” Don said, just barely preventing himself from apologizing again.  “I’ll be sure to remember that,” he promised, and smiled.

The younger turtle instantly smiled back, and patted Don’s shoulder.  “Good, cuz now that we’ve gotten that straightened out, we can move to stage two—which consists of Yours Truly helping his beloved love-sick brother get through this!  Just tell me what you wanna do, whatever would make you feel better, and we’ll do it,” he said with a grin, and looked at Donatello expectantly.

“That’s okay, I don’t think—” 

“Eaghnt!” Mike held up his hand making a noise like a “wrong answer” buzzer.  “Sorry!  That option is invalid, please try again.”

“No, really Mikey … 

“Eaghnt!  Look, you don’t seem to be catching on here, so I’ll tell you what—I’ll toss out some ideas and you can pick one.”

“Uh, okay, sure,” said Don in surrender.

“Okay, let me see …” he said, tapping a finger to his chin.  “Do you want to, I dunno, eat like, gallons of ice cream and sit around listening to mushy love songs while crying on my shoulder?  Cuz I’d totally do that with you, I’d just have to put on a rain coat or something first …”

“Mikey, I’m sad—not gay.  That much at least should be pretty clear,” Don said dryly.

“Oh, right,” Mike laughed, and then thought some more. 

“I got it! Let’s get plastered and talk about how completely evil women are, and then write drunken emails to Ricki telling her you’re _so_ over her, and boy is she gonna regret passing you by cuz she’ll never find anyone half as good as you!  I could totally make that happen—I just found Raph’s latest stash of liquor the other day, and it’s only a matter of time before he moves it again, but since it’s for a good cause I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if we just, like, borrowed some.  You know, to help you out,” Mike said with a wink.

Don rolled his eyes.  “Should I be worried about how excited you look over this idea?”

“Is that a ‘yes’?” Mike asked hopefully.

“No!  It’s not really my thing.  Besides, it’s not Ricki’s fault, and alcohol’s a depressant anyway so it’d just make me feel worse.”

“See, that’s your problem, dude,” Mikey countered.  “You’re being too logical about all this!  The point is that after a few drinks, you’d start to _see_ it as her fault, hence the writing of scathing emails, which would make you feel better cuz you’d be unloading your anger, which is really very healthy—it’s not good to keep your anger pent up inside,” he said, as if the logic was undeniable.

Donatello raised an eye ridge.  “Even if the anger is fake to begin with?  I don’t think I buy it.  Come on, what else you got?”  He was actually starting to get a kick out of this.

Mikey deflated slightly when his drunken email extravaganza was vetoed, but he quickly rose to the new challenge.

“Okay, then we could go steal Raph’s mp3 player,” he suggested, shrugging.

Don’s brow ridges flew up.  “And how would _that_ make me feel better?”

Mikey grinned wickedly.  “Dude, obviously you’ve never taken a close look at Raph’s face when I mess with his stuff or you wouldn’t even have to ask!  It’s totally hilarious!  Well, for about three seconds until he catches me, anyway … but it’s definitely worth the pounding!”

Laughing, Don said, “Well, then, the only hitch I see is that I’m not quite sad enough to be feeling suicidal.”

“Hmmm, good point.”  After a moment, Mike said reluctantly, “Well, I guess I could let you win at Scrabble again …”

“ _Let_ me win?  _Again_?”

“You’re right, you’re right—that probably wouldn’t work since I don’t know if I could come up with words _small_ enough to stay behind your score …” He ignored Don’s incredulous laughter and pretended to be thinking carefully. 

“Ha!  I know!  How bout Trivial Pursuit?  It should be easier to let you win at that one, since I know all the answers and I can, like, purposely say the wrong ones.  And hey, don’t you worry.  I’ll take a handicap, too—you can start with four pies,” he said with a straight face.

Don could only laugh.

“Aaaalll right, five pies then.”

Seeing that his brother was now laughing so hard that he couldn’t answer, Mike finally dropped the act and smiled.

When at last he found his voice again, Don became serious and said, “You know, Mikey, as appealing as all of those options sound, I don’t think any of them will help.”  He waited for the younger turtle’s expression to fall before adding, “Yeah, cuz you see, you’ve _already_ managed to cheer me up, and I don’t see how anything else would do a better job.”  Then Don grinned at him, and he marveled at how quickly Mikey’s face went through an exact reversal of expressions to end in a beaming smile.

Mikey gave Donatello a spontaneous hug, which Don returned warmly.

“You’ll be okay, huh?” Mikey asked after releasing his brother.

“Course I will,” Donny answered, and he rested his head against his Mikey’s shoulder.  Another minute passed in silence before either of them spoke again.

“Hey Mikey?”

“Yeah bro?”

“There is one thing you could do for me.”

“What’s that?” asked Mike.

Don cleared his throat.  “Maybe sometimes I could, you know, sort of ramble on to you about her, and you could pretend not to be bored out of your mind?”

Mike reached over and rubbed Don’s head.  “Sure thing, buddy.”  There was pause.  Then he said.  “Uh … you wouldn’t mind if I brought my video games along, would you?”

Don lifted his head to stare incredulously at his brother’s face.

“What??  Naturally I’ll _mute_ them …” defended Michelangelo.

“Hmmm, on second thought,” responded Don with a glint in his eye, “maybe I _would_ like to see you steal Raph’s mp3 player …”


End file.
